


Two Truths and a Lie

by GoldStarGrl



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Gen, Season 12 spoilers, Vague allusions to macdennis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 18:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10224845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldStarGrl/pseuds/GoldStarGrl
Summary: Mac's a lot better at not lying to himself these days. Mostly.(A post-Dennis' Double Life fic)





	

_It's okay. Your feelings aren't fucked-up._

That one is hard. Takes a lot of practice, a lot of conscious thought. He remembers once when he was a little kid and tripped down a flight of stairs, the school nurse scooped him up and made sure he hadn’t broken anything by tapping his knee with a little hammer. When she did that, his leg kicked up without him meaning to, without him even thinking about it.

Being out, _really, seriously out_ , feels a lot like pressing down on his leg with both hands, forcing it to be still every time the hammer hits.

Letting himself hum in assent when Dee points out a hot baseball player on TV. Curling his fingers inside himself late at night and not letting the disgust take over when he pictures a man's face. Looking straight at the bouncer at The Rainbow, refusing to let his blushing turn into shame turn into anger.

He wasn't as angry, for a little while there.

It must be residual, why he still felt like punching holes in the drywall every night. Because he’s out and totally in touch with his emotions now, as a gay man.

 

 _It's okay. You're not alone_.

Frank and Dee mostly go on as normal, arguing, drinking. Their snapping at each other does intensify, with one less family member to direct vitriol towards.

Frank buys them all stupid bullshit, hoping to inspire a scheme or at least a little chaos. He sends a package of Karate _gi_ to Mac apropos of nothing. It's the first time Mac's ever gotten a present from him without some kind of string or ultimatum.

Sometimes he sees Dee turn on instinct, blonde hair flying behind her, to roll her eyes at someone who isn't there. He sees her face fall a little the second she remembers. She starts smoking inside the bar and no one tells her to stop, even though it’s clearly driving the patrons and Charlie crazy.

Mac alone is impervious to the way the smoke makes her reek. In fact, it kind of reminds him of his mom, which he thinks is making him hate Dee less. They end up spending a lot of time alone in the bar together, because of this.

Once, when he’s drunk enough to acknowledge the elephant in the room, or the lack thereof, he asks her “What’s it like being a twin?”

She squints at him for a long time before answering. “What’s it like _not_ being a twin?”

He blinks. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah.” She took a fresh cigarette out of the front pocket of her shirt and chain-lighting it from the one in her mouth. “Me neither.”

 

Charlie brings him lots of drugs. Weed, pills he stole from the free clinic down the street, the strongest glue he can get his hands on, enough booze to give an elephant cirrhosis. He never mentions why he's being so generous with his supply. He doesn't have to.

"I'm bored." He says, letting himself into Mac's - and it was just Mac's, now - apartment and flopping down on the couch. And Mac was only too glad for the company.

They spend a lot of time getting high and watching cartoons, sometimes all afternoon and into the night. Sometimes Charlie sits on the floor and draws while Mac practices his karate. Just like when they were five and thirteen and the only two left in South Philly when everyone else went to college or marriage or just _on_. Just like the last time that they only had each other.

Charlie falls asleep - or more often, passes out - against his arm. He looks even smaller, more defenseless than normal when he's unconscious. He's actually a year older than Mac - some teacher rightfully made him repeat kindergarten - but their whole lives everyone, including Mac, treated him like he was the baby, the one who needed protecting.

He felt a wave of nausea the day he realized Charlie, Charlie Kelly, the five-foot-tall illiterate janitor, son of a whore, lifelong Section 8 housing resident, felt sorry for _him_. They all did.

He wakes Charlie up and tells him to get the hell out of his house and Charlie just obeys. The way people obey a lunatic gunman for fear of their lives.

Because everyone knew. It’s just. Everyone knew.

 

_It's okay. You don't miss him._

He goes into the bar and tries to get better at making mojitos and daiquiris and all the other fruity drinks he never let himself drink but now mesh well with his new lifestyle. Besides, the only person who knew how to make cocktails...well, they all should learn how to make cocktails.

He sometimes tricks Dee into doing half a dozen tequila shots under the guise of "teaching him" but it doesn't make him laugh the same way, to see her slump over into a pile of salt.  

He goes to The Rainbow a lot. Like, _a lot_ a lot. He's got decades of sex - real sex, good sex - to catch up on. And it is good - sometimes annoying that gay guys are way more insistent on wearing condoms than half the girls he's banged - but mostly he feels good, drunk, light with someone's hands on his hips or the back of his neck.

He always fucks - or gets fucked, a few times, when he's feeling brave or drunk enough - in the bathroom, or the basement, or at the guy's apartment. He can't bring himself to bring anyone back to his place, to the bed he had slept alone in every single night since he left. Left them. Left Mac.

In church there were ceremonial robes and candles and the big gold tabernacle, the fanciest item he'd ever seen in life, and they were only used for special occasions, touched only under circumstances. Thei- _his_ bed, was like one of those.

He was saving it for a quality lay. It's not like he was saving it for _him_. It's not like he would rather wake up alone in that bed every day for the next eighteen years rather than let some other guy sleep on the left side. He wasn't a pussy.

He's fine. He's okay. It's okay. He's gay and getting laid and he's running a kickass bar and his best friend is a mess who gives him any drugs he wants and he lives alone for the first time in his entire life and that's adult and exciting and good.

He's okay. Everything's okay.


End file.
